


Ambrosia

by MikaKagehjra



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Enjolras is secretly female and especially badass, F/M, Gen, Genderswap, Grantaire isn't sure how he feels about that, Possibly more like a non-cis AU but I don't really explore that much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-04
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2017-12-10 08:28:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/783959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MikaKagehjra/pseuds/MikaKagehjra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"That doesn't explain why you have to be a man. It's more convenient to travel that way, but it doesn't warrant staying disguised once you get to Paris."</p><p>"No, I suppose it doesn't." She fell silent, but just as I was about to cut in and say that she didn't have to answer if I was making her uncomfortable, she spoke. "I found a goal during my secondary schooling. I learned about much more substantial topics than initially, including politics." I had to hold myself back from snorting in derision: politics, what a joke. "The common people are so oppressed by the nobles, just because they have a little money. They—we need to rise up, take control of the government for ourselves—for the good of everyone. I can't start a revolution as a woman."</p><p>"I don't doubt you can lead one as a man."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

I was the only one who knew Lucien Enjolras before we died. I was neither one of his trusted lieutenants or his esteemed peers, nor was I his enemy; he never saw me to the extent that I saw him. I wasn’t even his friend. But I saw him more clearly than any of them ever did. He was good-looking, that much everyone saw—there were even those who called him Apollo come down to earth, though I may have started that trend myself in the midst of a drunken binge. He was passionate, a vicious voice against the monarchy and those who oppressed the populace. To the abased, he was an angel swooped down from the heavens to liberate them. To the oppressors and the idlers, he was a demon raised from the depths of Hell come to drag them back down with him. He was the force of a thunderstorm in the peak of summer, both beautiful and terrible. But just as he saw the world in only two shades—black and white—the world viewed him just the same. I saw all of his shades of gray, the ones he likely didn't even see himself. It came with knowing him for as long as I did, though he pushed aside all I did for him much as he pushed me aside whenever we saw each other as he matured. I knew the secrets he forgot, and I chose to take his forgetfulness as trust even as he scoffed at the idea of me making even the smallest contribution to the revolution he planned.  


He didn't always plan for revolution. As much as it was an integral part of his character during his short venture into adulthood, plans like revolution seemed the furthest thing from his mind until adolescence. As any educated child of the time did, he played at war, but he was mostly preoccupied with pursuing his studies and deciding what direction he wanted to take his life from there. Enjolras had impeccable concentration, and when he turned his focus towards something, his devotion was unquenchable. Until he matured, that devotion was towards his studies. He used to say that he wanted to know whatever he possibly could so that whatever he decided to do, he would know that it was best out of all the other paths available to him. But he never spoke of revolution, and freedom was a fleeting fancy whenever something sparked a conversation concerning it. Liberation was a distant possibility, not yet a very personal reality. So much was different when Enjolras was young.  


Before necessity called, he used to be called Lucille, as he used to be called she. It was always obvious that she was bolder than any other young woman dared to be, and she spoke plainly and debated with the men. She learned how to sneak into her father's library to teach herself before she learned how to sew a straight stitch, and by the time the girls and boys split for their schooling her parents had already given in and allowed her to receive a full schooling along with her brothers. She excelled at whatever sewing or flower-arranging project her mother would put in front of her, and her blonde hair fell in ringlets down to her waist at the age of twelve, and she never put up a fuss about dressing nicely for the men at her family's extravagant balls even though we all knew she hated it. She agreed to her mother's terms to find a husband for herself as soon as she completed her advanced education, and that was enough to settle the matter for her. Lucille had a habit of intimidating all of her suitors, no small feat considering how many they were in number. She refused to settle for a man who couldn't challenge her, and no man dared to challenge such a fiery woman. She condemned herself and got what she wanted in the same breath. She completed her education, and at the age of sixteen she was betrothed to a wealthy young man with an estate in the country.  


Lucille never intended on honoring her promise. The evening before her scheduled wedding, she dressed in her brother's clothes, tying her hair up under a hat so that it didn't shine under the moonlight and give her away, and she snuck out of her bedroom window to meet a carriage she'd hired to pick her up down the street. She didn't take more than a few francs of her family's fortune, only carrying with her what money she'd earned for herself helping local shopkeepers between her studies. As she rarely indulged herself with candies or fancy dresses, only using her own money to buy extra writing supplies so that she could continue to supplement her studies without her parents' knowledge, she'd earned quite a lot for a young lady of her age and status.


	2. Chapter 2

The carriage took her two towns over and dropped her off at the local inn, where she hired a room. She'd done her research; they were known to be discreet, when necessary. I watched her enter the common room an astonishingly handsome woman, and as she hired a room and retreated upstairs I wondered what such a lady could be doing in an inn unaccompanied at the late hour.  


I found out a few hours later when she returned downstairs, her chest bound and her hair chopped off just below her chin. If she'd been astonishing before, she was captivating now—or he was. Enjolras looked somehow attractive and almost awkward simultaneously as a woman, but he was beautiful as a man. His jaw was strong, his eyes sharp and clear, and his shoulders were broad and taut as if he carried the weight of the stars. He carried himself just as a man should, the swell of his breasts hidden to the curious eye. Lucille Enjolras was born to be Lucien.  


He ordered a bottle of wine and established himself at a small table near the edge of the room, and he watched the room's activity as I watched him. He didn't drink from his bottle after a first cursory sip. A group of rowdy young men played cards in one corner, and he scoffed at them. There was a man lying dead drunk under a table in the middle of the room, and his eyes passed him over. Serving girls walked by him with low-cut shirts and appraising gleams in their eyes, but he waved them by with hardly a glance. He seemed to observe the activities going on without any desire to join in, perhaps studying the behavior around him. All I knew that night was I recognized her from school, and she'd entered the inn as a woman and sat now before me as a man. He'd piqued my interest. Having imbibed enough drink already to feel brave, I approached him.  


"Can a man offer another man a bit of company?" I asked, and I watched his brow furrow as he tried to figure out what I meant by that. After just a moment too long, he decided how much I knew shouldn't affect whether or not he offered me a seat; he gestured for me to sit across from him. I took a pull from my bottle and frowned as I realized it was lighter than I'd estimated. He watched my movements, too careful to be casual; his posture was too rigid for a man in a pub. "You need to relax, or at least learn to make it look like you're relaxed. I'm likely the only one who's noticed so far, but it takes more than a haircut to make a woman into a man." She stiffened, the unnatural straightening of her spine exposing the roundness of her bust despite the bindings.  


"I beg your pardon!" she hissed, but I held up my hand in a gesture to show I meant no harm and leaned in closer so I could lower my voice.  


"Relax your spine," I murmured, and I smiled as she did so automatically. "No one's going to notice anything amiss if you get someone to straighten out your hair a little—God, did you use a saw?—Anyway, you might be able to pull it off with the right clothing and style of speech, but it's not good manners to enter an inn a member of the fairer sex and depart a member of the coarser." I leaned back in my seat and made a show of looking far too casual. "Once your general appearance is taken care of, it's just a matter of letting people see what they want to see. I can teach you, if you'd like."  


She pursed her lips, frowning at me delicately—far too delicately for a man with her appearance. "You're drunk," she declared with a haughty turn of her head. "And I'd have to be absolutely out of my mind to trust you with this." She lowered her hands, leaning forward as I had. "This is no place for a private conversation. We should go to the room I've rented for the night."  


I couldn't help the laughter that burst from my lips at her suggestion, but I finished off my drink once I calmed myself to give anyone whose attention had been drawn time to lose interest. I lowered my voice to respond to her, knowing my words word do nothing to erase the crease in her forehead as she looked back at me. "My dear, it's not wise to invite strange men to your room in a town filled with strangers. You don't even know my name. I didn't think you were stupid, or I wouldn't have joined you; it appears I was mistaken. It's Kilian Grantaire, by the way—my name."  


The crease in her forehead smoothed, despite my prediction otherwise, and his mouth curled into a grin. "I'm not stupid," he corrected. "I have a revolver aimed at something I predict is very important to you right now. I'll be keeping it with me tonight; come with me. And keep in mind, one wrong move may cost you the little ones." Sure enough, I heard the click of the safety being put back on a gun before he stood with his bottle, all evidence of his having a gun hidden again. If I'd had any bad intentions (though they'd be in poor taste), I'd be frightened. As it was, with myself merely intrigued and just bored enough to be willing to help, I simply followed with an impressed chuckle. "You should call me Lucien Enjolras," he added as we reached the stairs.  


"And formerly?" I wondered.  


"Lucille." He brought out a key and unlocked the door furthest from the noise of the common room, gesturing for me to enter first so that he could follow. "Now, what did you mean down there?" she asked. "About my hair, and about people seeing what they want to see."  


I took a seat on the table and took my time answer, surveying the room first. It wasn't any nicer than my room, but she had more possessions lying around than I did. There were a dozen rolls of bandages on the table behind me, what she'd used to bind her chest by my assumption. A trunk was open in the middle of the floor, newly-bought men's clothes strewn across the floor around it. What she was wearing looked considerably older, but it also looked ill-fitted; I figured she'd taken it from her father or brother, a hypothesis he later confirmed. There were scissors on the bed, and over a foot of golden hair was lying next to them, some of it having fallen on the floor. Deciding to start there, I crossed the room to pick them up. "Let me even out your hair, first of all. It's obvious you did it yourself, and even I don't know any poor idiot who doesn't at least have a friend willing to do it for him."  


She dropped her eyes to the floor with a frown, but she pulled up a chair to the table after a few moments of deliberation. "Do your worst," she conceded. "And if you take that literally I'll shoot both of your kneecaps, to start." She heard my chuckle as I approached and swatted at the air behind her, but I hadn't yet gotten close enough for her to reach. I waited until she sighed and stopped squirming to step into place behind her. She stiffened when she felt my hand at the back of her neck, brushing against her skin as I took up a piece of her hair. I hesitated for a few seconds, holding her hair between my fingers. She huffed. "Look, if you're not going to do anything—" I cut the part I'd been holding before she finished her sentence and continued without slowing again, effectively silencing her.  


"It's probably good that you're so open with your impatience—a man is more likely to be than a woman—but keep in mind that I'm not a professional, and I'm trying to be careful." I couldn't see her cheeks, but the back of her neck reddened. "And a man doesn't blush so easily. But that will come with time." She didn't respond, and I didn't pursue the matter further. When I was nearly done, I dared to speak again. "So, why does a lady such as yourself wish to disguise herself as a man?" I half-expected her to point her pistol at me again, but she didn't. I tapped her shoulder to let her know I was finished, and she turned to face me.  


"I'm supposed to be getting married in the morning," she explained. "I never wanted to be an ornament, the way my mother is. In exchange for receiving a full education, I agreed to be married to a man of her choosing. The day I made that agreement was the day I started planning to flee to Paris."  


"That doesn't explain why you have to be a man. It's more convenient to travel that way, but it doesn't warrant staying disguised once you get to Paris."  


"No, I suppose it doesn't." She fell silent, but just as I was about to cut in and say that she didn't have to answer if I was making her uncomfortable, she spoke. "I found a goal during my secondary schooling. I learned about much more substantial topics than initially, including politics." I had to hold myself back from snorting in derision: politics, what a joke. "The common people are so oppressed by the nobles, just because they have a little money. They—we need to rise up, take control of the government for ourselves—for the good of everyone. I can't start a revolution as a woman."  


"I don't doubt you can lead one as a man." I wasn't sure why I said that; I made it a point never to form an opinion on the stupidity that is politics. Whatever I thought, nothing would ever change. Somehow though, I did believe Lucien Enjolras could lead a revolution. The stark determination in his eyes even just talking about it made me think he could take the throne of France for himself if he had a mind to. The grim smile and nod he granted me for my words was enough incentive to make me want to say more, as was the slight blush on her cheeks. "What do you plan to do when you get to Paris? You've planned out the rest of your journey so carefully, you can't really expect to just go there and rally the people and have everything work out."  


Enjolras scoffed, shaking his head. "No, of course not. I've enrolled in college, to study law, and I'll find a job once I'm there to support me once my savings run out." I couldn't say I was surprised. She was peculiar, but I'd been wrong before; she wasn't stupid. "Any other ridiculous questions?"  


"I have one, but I'd like to think it's not as ridiculous as you say."  


"So spit it out then," he demanded. "We won't know for sure until you say it."  


I grinned, knowing she was about to become angry with me. "Where did you learn to use a gun?"  


Oddly enough, I'd predicted her reaction incorrectly again. He scoffed at me. "When a man can't summon the physical strength to fight, he must find a proper substitute." I laughed then, but I couldn't know that once trained, Enjolras would be fearsome in a fight.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just realized I forgot to finish uploading this, despite finishing it before I even started posting it. So I'm going to just post the last chapters all in a row to fix that.

The strength of a man seemed to occupy his limbs, though I knew his manhood was more illusion than reality. Bahorel had brought me along to teach this group of restless schoolboys to defend themselves, and I hadn't expected to enjoy the evening spent separated from my drink, but I'd had to restrain my grin when I saw that Enjolras was their leader. His eyebrows shot up when he saw me, as surprised to see me as I was to see him, but he looked far less excited about it than I felt. A man wearing glasses (whom I'd later learn was called Combeferre) stood with him and looked concerned at Enjolras’ reaction. I heard him ask if we knew each other, and Enjolras brushed him off by saying we'd met in a pub once.

The man looked as if his eyes were going to fall out of his head. It's true; as I watched Enjolras direct the other students even as he was learning himself, I thought he was too disciplined to be the type to go to a pub, let alone meet a stranger there. When Combeferre recovered, I offered him a smirk and a wink—he almost choked on his tongue, and Enjolras shot me a glare that looked like it should have burned my insides. I pretended not to notice, turning to where Bahorel was whistling for everyone's attention.

When they paired off to work on the moves Bahorel had shown them, Combeferre went off to the side, citing no desire to fight for any reason. This left them with an odd number, and I grinned as I approached the one left without a partner—Enjolras.

"Mind working with me today, Madame?" Fear that she'd be exposed flashed in Enjolras’ eyes, but his jaw remained firm. He shook his head and stood up straighter—he was a full four inches taller than me, but he'd have no balance that way. We were all shoeless to avoid knocking each other out with a misplaced boot to the head, and he still stood flat-footed. "Bend your knees a little unless you're looking to fall," I advised. "And stand on the balls of your feet." He obeyed, his mind working to find a way to get the best results. Ever the intellectual where physical capabilities could not suffice. "Now come at me."

Enjolras had been waiting for the go ahead, likely since before Bahorel had taught them anything when I'd implied we'd gotten rather acquainted to Combeferre earlier. Other mock-fights went on around us half-heartedly, but neither version of Enjolras goes halfway on anything. She lunged towards me, but the fist that lashed out was that of an angered man, not an offended woman. She'd been learning since we'd parted. I don't know why I expected him to fight like an amateur; despite never having been in a fight in his life, he fought like a veteran. He'd not missed or forgotten a thing Bahorel or I said, and though we'd only gone through the basics so far, he was keeping up. The other fights faded out around us as I was forced to focus on mine. It was quickly becoming clear that Enjolras was't messing around. He was angry and he was going to prove that he could match me. If it was a fight he wanted, it was a fight he'd get. Who was I to displease? We weaved in and out of each other's blows, always just missing each other. There was a dull roar in my ears, but there was a grin on my face; the leader of a revolution, however doomed, was a worthy opponent. A few minutes in, long enough for both of us to be panting, I was the first to land a hit, my knuckles pressing her teeth into her lip. At the sight of blood, I paused, and she got me in the upper lip in return. Registering my hesitation, she stopped too.

"Why did you stop?" I suddenly noticed that the others had gathered around us. The roaring in my ears had been their voices, cheering for their chief.

"You're bleeding." I tasted copper in my own mouth, but that didn't matter. She scoffed, the motion spraying blood on the pavement between us. I couldn't look away from the red staining the cobblestones, not until her voice followed it.

"So what?"

"This fight's over." I turned and walked down the street away from where the students had chosen to meet, feeling several pairs of curious eyes following my exit. Only one pair of footsteps stormed after me. I stopped once I was far enough away from the men to be out of earshot, and Enjolras kept coming. She turned me around with a rough hand on my shoulder.

"What the hell was that?" she raged.

"I hit you."

"Yeah, and I got you once, too! That's how a fight works! You were teaching me to defend myself, and you made me defend myself!" She realized her voice was getting shrill, and she paused to take a deep breath, centering herself. "It's because you know I'm a woman." I couldn't deny that. "Well, none of them do. So to them, this is just a suspicious circumstance to be remembered if they decide they're curious." She frowned at me, her eyes boring into mine. "You're the one who taught me to avoid those. So whatever the hell made you create one... fix it." She let her hand fall from my shoulder, starting back to where her revolution was brewing. She paused a few paces away from me. "You're welcome back once you pull yourself together." And then she was gone.

And I never did go back to them.


	4. Chapter 4

Not until our next accidental meeting—months later. After a particularly disastrous fight inside, my usual pub was closed down until they could clean it up enough to be usable again. It would probably only be for a night or two, but I found myself at the Café Musain instead, a name I recognized but couldn’t remember why. I figured I must have heard someone say good things about it if I could remember the name, so I sat down at the back of the room next to the stairs and settled in for the night. The alcohol was acceptable for the night; it was probably better than what I usually drank, but I couldn’t admit that as a regular customer at Le Rossignol. There was a certain loyalty earned when the staff there spent so much of their time dealing with my presence. After a few hours in the Musain though, I couldn’t help wanting to leave immediately and wanting to stay forever. Walking through the front door was the vision of Apollo himself, a god among men—Enjolras, accompanied by a curly-haired man I’d seen at the training session that spring. He was called Courfeyrac, not that I cared to remember that at the time. They were speaking animatedly, and they didn’t seem to notice me approaching them from the back of the room until I threw an arm over Enjolras’ shoulders in greeting. In my defense, I was more than a little drunk by this time.

“I remember you!” Courfeyrac exclaimed. “You came with Bahorel to teach us about fighting, earlier this year! Why did you never come back?” Enjolras’ eyes were fixed upon me with the single-mindedness of a hawk, and I tried my best to ignore them despite the desperate pounding of my heart in my chest.

“I had something to take care of,” I replied, looking at Enjolras instead of Courfeyrac as I answered. He didn’t seem to notice, clapping a hand on my shoulder and starting towards the stairs without another word of it.

“And you’ve taken care of it, I trust? Are you joining us for our meeting tonight?” He didn’t wait for an answer, disappearing up the stairs, and I turned to Enjolras with a raised eyebrow.

“You meet here?”

Enjolras didn’t answer; it was a stupid question, anyway. “Have you? Taken care of what needed to be taken care of?” His gaze was sharp, and I felt as the mouse to his hawk. I couldn’t quite meet his eyes, but I forced myself to formulate a response.

“I’ve made up my mind to treat you as you wish to be treated, whether or not it is how I would have you treated. I didn’t think I would have the chance to show you that, but perhaps I’ll find myself frequenting your meetings if I discover I have the endurance to stomach them.”

Enjolras scoffed and walked away, and I followed with a smile.


	5. Chapter 5

After our third meeting, I stopped counting. Their student group met once a week in the room above the Café Musain, and even though I cared little for their purpose, their leader giving speeches from the top of the table in the corner was enough incentive to keep up my attendance. He was beautiful in his fury, the passion blazing in his eyes only making his golden hair look like a halo around his head in the lamplight. When he talked down at us all (though I’m sure if I phrased it like that to him he’d refuse to continue that way), I had a reason to look at him. I never wanted to look away. I believed in nothing, but I believed in him.

It was the year 1832 when their talk of revolution started to seem real. General Lamarque, the only man who could generally (pun intended) be counted on to speak on behalf of the people, the majority of France, had fallen ill. He got worse by the hour, and no one expected him to live much longer. The world seemed to be holding its breath; no one knew what would happen when General Lamarque had breathed his last. He’d often been the only obstacle when the nobility wished to suppress the peasantry. What would the rich do once there was nothing standing in their way? Many of us couldn’t imagine how we could be much worse off, but I knew they’d take advantage of their power somehow. It was their nature.

Enjolras spoke of cutting the fat ones down to size, but the starving ones didn’t have the strength in their limbs to do it. They were fat for a reason; they had the money to eat, and eat well. We had nothing and in their eyes, that is all we were worth. This revolution of his was doomed to fail, but I would follow him to the end—or to my end, if it came to that first. A little urchin named Gavroche followed Enjolras’ cause, and I was worried about him. There was starting to be talk of a barricade, the use of the arms we’d been stockpiling for years, and he was too young to be involved, but too stubborn to allow himself to be left behind. I resolved to keep an eye on him the best I could, and I tried even in the months I stayed with the schoolboys for the sake of their leader. His parents didn’t seem to care for him at all, and I tried to pool my income with his sister’s so that he could be taken care of properly. He was only a child, but he hardly even seemed to need or want our help. He and Enjolras were my only real ties to the cause, as friendly as the others were, and I did my best to keep them close.

Enjolras disdained me, but I persisted. Or rather, he pushed me off and I continued to annoy him. He told me to be serious, and I retorted that I was wild. He said I would drink myself to an early grave and he would not miss me then, and I insisted that I had a liver of steel and he’d have to live with me forever. He told me I was a hopeless drunk, incapable of belief, of thought, of will, of life and of death; I only told him he would see. I believed in enough to have something worth dying for—someone, rather.

We raised our barricade on the day of General Lamarque’s funeral, and after the first battle I felt sick to my stomach. I took refuge in the upper room of the Musain with a bottle as usual, trying to drown out the world around me. I’d always known the revolution was doomed, but knowing it and seeing it in action were two different things. He was going to die. Or she was. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to call Enjolras anymore. Enjolras was always both, and now he was going to be neither. Enjolras was going to die, and I was going to have to watch. The revolution wasn’t mine. I couldn’t die for the revolution; I wasn’t a part of it. But I could die for Enjolras. Would it even matter that they died? Would the world remember them? I preferred to drink rather than let myself think about it, and I was drinking when Enjolras stormed up the stairs.

“You’re entirely predictable! I knew you would be here, drinking your imagined sorrows away instead of staying with the rest of us! You don’t even care about any of this. I can’t fathom why you’re here.”

“You’re all going to die,” I slurred, already well on my way to a drunken slumber.

“Of course, you’re drunk. As always. Why is it that whenever I want to have a decent conversation with you, you’re inebriated?”

“Sweetheart, you know better than anyone else my mental state is just fine, and that I’m more likely to be found drunk than not.”

“And that!” she yelled, slamming herself down at the table across from me. She pulled my bottle out of my hand halfway to my lips and drained the rest of it. “Calling me sweetheart whenever no one else can hear, calling me Apollo whenever the hell you please—what’s with that? You really know how to confuse a man, Kilian Grantaire.”

“Or a woman.”

Enjolras rolled her eyes. “Yes, or a woman. You seem to prefer to think of me as one though I live the life of a man, and have for years now.”

“You were a woman when I first met you.”

“And I’ve become a man since then. No woman could lead this battle, not publicly. Though I wouldn’t doubt her abilities, none would follow her.” Enjolras snatched another bottle from next to me, taking a long drink from that one as well. “You’re insufferable. I just can’t figure you out.”

“Why would you want to?”

“I didn’t say I did!” Even though she denied it, her face turned red. “I’m not used to not being able to figure people out.”

I stood and stumbled around the table, leaning on the edge right next to her. “Darling, you don’t have to lie for my sake. It’s pouring outside; even if we had a chance to start, the gunpowder is going to be soaked through. We’re going to be dead by this time tomorrow.”

That seemed to trigger something in her, and he surged up to meet me, slamming his hands on the table at either side of my hips with a snarl. “I can’t believe even when you see the power of the people you still doubt them! If you always believed we were going to die, why did you still follow us?”

“I never believed in the people, but I believe in you.”

She recoiled, taking the bottle she’d snatched from me and fleeing down the stairs. But I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d really seen a new red tinge to her cheeks. Still pondering, I fell asleep saturated with drink only hours after the first battle finished.


	6. Chapter 6

When I awoke, it wasn’t due to a noise or because I was physically disturbed—much the opposite. There had been much noise, and it suddenly abated, leaving behind a void in which I could wake. I opened my eyes and found the world was light; I’d slept through the night, and a good portion of the day too judging by the height of the sun. It dawned on me that I was not alone in the room, and I started as I surveyed the room. There were soldiers inside—so the barricade had already fallen—and they were all focused on the opposite corner of the room. I could easily slip out behind them were I so inclined.

Enjolras stood at the dangerous end of their bayonets, full feet between him and the nearest soldier. He had some blood on him, but not his; he was unharmed. His jaw was firm and his stance was unyielding. His shoulders were squared as he faced those who had driven him into that corner, a broken gun in one hand and a red flag in the other. He was ethereal, painted gold by the light streaming in from the window behind him. There was no softness to be found in him; he was a statue facing a firing squad, unperturbed. The soldiers aimed their guns at him without moving to shoot. The death of a great man was enough to stay their hands without an order otherwise.

“Do you wish to have your eyes covered?”

“No.”

The soldier hesitated, but gave the order. “Aim!”

I stood. “Long live the revolution!” I noticed the stairs to the next floor had been cut so that the soldiers couldn’t climb them, and I smiled to myself. The captain would go down with his ship. The dog would be shot with his master. “Long live the revolution!” I cried. “I am one of them. Take us both with one shot.” I strode across the room to meet Enjolras in front of the window, looking to him for direction as always. “Do you permit it?”

He didn’t speak. A smile curled his lips as he took my hand in his, and I could see both Lucille and Lucien in it. The smile was still there when the gunshots sounded.


	7. Chapter 7

I fell at his feet as though struck, and he fell over the edge of the window. His flag still hung from his hand, streaming down the side of the building as thought it was bleeding with him, a warning in blood. He was a fallen angel, and his blood stained the streets. To the mortal world, our story was over. But our hands were still clasped there in the café, and Enjolras was still smiling at me.

“I told you we’d be dead.” That wasn’t what I meant to say, but it made Enjolras laugh.

“In the end, you were right about a lot of things. But you weren’t right about everything.”

“Wasn’t I? The people didn’t rise. Your revolution failed.” Enjolras shook his head, moving to grasp both of my hands instead of just one. The contact confused me. Why did he not keep his distance from me, as he did when we lived? Nothing had changed but our parting from our mortal bodies. Apparently there was an afterlife. I’d concern myself with that when Enjolras wasn’t being ridiculous. “It did. We’re dead, that’s the proof of that.” Enjolras’ grin was becoming unnerving. “What is it?”

“Can’t you hear it?” He let go of one of my hands to pull me down the stairs and out to the street, where I found the world was changed. We weren’t just outside the café, we were back in the Paris square, the elephant statues joined by a magnificent barricade much like the one we’d built less than a full day ago. Enjolras’ friends and lieutenants were already standing at the top of it with their flags, waving them in the air with pride—singing in celebration and greeting to our new lives after death. “The revolution never failed.” Enjolras pulled me up to the top, Courfeyrac and Combeferre on either side of us. They greeted both of us warmly, and Combeferre handed me a flag of my own. Enjolras still held his ragged red banner, and he raised it proudly, a cheer coming from the people standing on the barricade around us as he thrust it into the air. I suddenly realized that there were more people here than had been with us at the barricade when we were alive—men, women, and children I’d never seen before. And Enjolras still held my hand, even though he was no longer leading me anywhere. He would always lead me.

After the mindless bloodshed of our mortal lives had ended, Enjolras learned to be the only one who knew me. It had taken years and our deaths to perpetuate, but finally she saw me clearly. I was a shade of gray among a sea of grays, and the barricade opened her eyes to my existence as someone she could pay attention to, one of the many people she wanted so badly to save—but one who wanted to see her and be seen in return, also. Once she was free to continue wearing men’s clothes and keep her hair as short as she liked and stop binding her chest, she granted me my freedom also. There was no revolution to plan for here where everyone was free; I had her full attention, and it was the most glorious feeling I’d ever experienced. To command the attention of a god—or a goddess, as she now openly was—was exhilarating. Apollo was revealed to be Artemis in death, but Apollo was still a better title; she preferred to be called by Lucien rather than Lucille. Lucille was a woman she’d never wanted to be. If she had to be a man in order to be Lucien, to continue the life that Lucien had led in the afterlife, then she had no objections, except to say that maybe people should liberate women from the shackles placed on them after they’d freed the poor from the rich.


	8. Chapter 8

Whether Lucien or Lucille, Enjolras somehow took an interest in me after our deaths together. He got what he wanted from me—I acknowledged him the way he wanted to be acknowledged, and I was honest with him, and I never spoke about the failed revolution that would only be remembered as a minor rebellion, if at all. I expected him to accept that and leave it, but he still sought me out when I was too shy or too ashamed of my inadequacy to find him. When I wandered off trying to reconcile this strange version of Paris with the place I knew in life, he was the one who came looking for me. When I spent hours hiding myself somewhere I was convinced no one would find me so that I could wonder how I’d been deemed worthy enough to rest in peace with those I cherished, he found me. One day—I don’t know when, there was no way to keep track of time and no one wanted to—I asked him why.

“What?” he seemed not to hear me, or to misunderstand the question. “What are you asking me?”

“Why do you notice me?”

“Why would I not?”

I gaped at him. “You’ve never noticed me before. Why now? What’s changed? We’re dead, yeah, but it can’t be just that. You’ve changed your behavior towards me completely.”

Enjolras sighed and pulled me from the corner I’d buried myself in to stand with him. “You’ve always been able to get under my skin. You have to have seen that.”

“Your point?”

“My point is…” Enjolras trailed off, his eyes dropping. He shifted his weight from foot to foot even though I knew we didn’t get tired here; it was a nervous habit, not out of any need to change positions. “My point is, you’re important. And you’ve always been important. And I forced myself to put the people’s needs before my own, and I don’t have to do that anymore.”

“What do you mean, put the people’s needs before your own?” I couldn’t help but add a tease. “You had me convinced you didn’t need anything.”

Enjolras reddened. “I need you.”

At that, I froze. “What?”

He pulled me in by the collar, and before I could even register that our lips were touching, that I was kissing the person I’d loved for half my life, he was pulling away, redder than I’d ever seen him. “I need you.”

And who have I ever been to deny a god?


End file.
